By: Luis Cuauhtémoc Berriozábal

Transatlantic Song

Singing child
voice of air
and wind.

Night of stars
half-moon like
a breast.

Evening birds
mimic the
child’s song.

Ocean breeze
swirls and joins
the birds.

Takes the child’s
song across
the sea.

###

Out of the Shadows

Sleeping in shadows,
rocked to sleep
by the conversation
of crickets and trees,
a drunken cacophony
of frenetic song and
speech, rustling wind,
and whooshing in
the ears, the homeless
soul takes his place
amongst the displaced.
In his dream one hundred
feet step all over him,
a giant centipede, with
absolute hunger for
flesh and bone. Saved
by a car horn, the sound
of mangled metal, copper,
aluminum and glass;
the smell of burned
rubber. Out of the shadows,
he steps out, a canopy
of stars shine, siren sounds
in the near vicinity,
the homeless souls heads
to another place away
from the tragic excitement
he wants no part of.

###

The Sea is my Fountain

The sea is my fountain
where I bathe and swim.

The sea is my sustenance.
I nourish on its fish.

Ask the ancient mariner.
Ask old Captain Ahab.

Ask Moby Dick and Jaws.
The sea provides sustenance.

The sea is my fountain
where I dip my feet in.

The sea is like a brother.
Ask Santiago, the old man.

Compassionate and violent,
the sea is many things.

Ask Helen, ask Annabel Lee,
in her tomb surrounded by sea.

###

Walk Out

And I walk out
because the
sun has yet to
climb free of
the mountain
to the sky,
clinging to its
golden sheets,
crisp and warm,
scented with
volcanic glow.
I walk without
looking up.
I go at a
steady pace
while the sun
takes a peak.

I look up
and then down.
The breathtaking
mountain has grown
a golden crown.
The top of it
is golden brown.
I feel the first
bite of sunlight.
I keep walking
where the trees
and its leaf
filled branches
shade me
from the sun.
The walk home
is warm, somewhat
comforting, unlike
an eagle’s claw
I imagine,
digging and
not letting go.

###

Sorrow is a Runaway Dream

Pickaxes for speech,
scratch at my ears, a
dark figure from the
dream I had, comes near.
Skin crawls, blood curdles,
and my hairs stand up.
Like anvils dropping
I moan in my bed.
Who is seeking to
tell me to wake up?
I feel so lonely
and alone at this
hour. Who is seeking
to tell me rise from
the bliss of sleep, from
my dreams? Sorrow is
a runaway dream
drowning at sea. I
see the waves rising
from the sea as it
wells up with dreams
lost. How sorrow grows?
How terrible it
is with its tears and
sour scent. I notice
I cannot sleep as
some fiend disturbs me
from bliss. I kick at
my sheets, the floor shakes,
I feel the sorrow
in my skin and clothes,
my eyes well up. I
slap at my thighs and
throw body shots at
the sorrow I feel.
I feel so lonely.
I am robbed of peace.

The crow sings outside
and it is more of
a scream. The light is
bright. With all of this
sorrow, how can I
make it? With all this
sorrow my lonely
bones will break. The sun
is distant, but near.